Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Traci looked at where it had landed. “That must’ve been weird.”

  Rick kicked the seed underneath the next booth. “Yeah, I sat up in the bed for the longest time trying to remember where I was. But the apartment looked like the last twenty I’d lived in, you know? Cottage cheese ceiling, thin walls, hollow doors. So I turned on the TV but the local news people looked like the local news people everywhere, like they’re spit out of a factory or something.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I finally got up and found the phone book. I was in Fort Worth.”

  “Hmm.” There was something wistful in the way Traci said, “But it has a good side too, right? I mean, like every time you move you get to leave behind whatever you want. And when you get to the next place you can pick the best parts of the past to tell or you can make up something without worryin’ that someone who knows different is going to make you a liar.”

  Rick touched his left hand to his chest. “Of course I don’t have anything like that in my past.”

  Traci played along. “Oh no, not you. Of course. I was speaking theoretically.”

  Rick squinted at her in mock skepticism. “I thought you weren’t real big on theory.”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Depends on whose theory,” Traci said. “Mine, for example, is fine.” She batted her eyelashes.

  Rick got lost momentarily in Traci’s heavily made up eyes. It looked like Liz Taylor had done them while drinking. Rick was examining the thick black lines along her lower lids when he said, “Well, I’d be lying if I told you I’d never left anything behind.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Let’s see.” Rick started counting on his fingers. “A broken dishwasher, an unpaid cable bill or two, an ironing board that wouldn’t stay up, lots of cheap-ass lawn furniture, and one really mean woman.”

  “Ewww, jackpot!” Traci bounced a bit in her seat. She could tell by the way Rick had said it, it wasn’t a sore spot. So she said, “Wife or girlfriend?”

  “We weren’t married,” Rick said. “And when all was said and done, she wasn’t much of a friend either.”

  Traci rolled her eyes and said, “Been there.”

  Rick noticed Traci’s mouth move as if she was about to say something else, but she stopped. He wondered what it was, and he thought about asking. It felt personal, the way she had looked, like she was about to tell him what she would leave behind if she ever had the chance. It was as though she had almost reached a certain level of trust with Rick, but not quite. And now there was an awkward silence that begged to be filled by a change of subject. Rick seized the moment and asked how long she’d been at the station.

  Traci smiled her gratitude. “A couple of years. But it’s not like I woke up one day thinking how much I wanted to answer phones for a living. I really want to work on the air.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I figured working at the front desk would be my best chance to get on the air without any experience. Besides, it can’t pay any worse than being a receptionist.”

  Rick made a derisive snorting noise. “Did you know Clay had Rob working for free?”

  “No.”

  Rick nodded. “And told him to drop outta high school for the honor.”

  Traci shook her head. “Gosh, there’s a shocker. Clay did something shitty.”

  “Oh, reealllly?” Rick laughed. “How bad is he?”

  Traci’s expression became suddenly guarded. “Well, I’m not sure I wanna go there,” she said. “You might, I dunno.” She shrugged.

  “I might what? You think I’m Clay’s spy boy? You think I drove here from North Dakota to. . . wait a second.” Rick stopped and sniffed the air. “I smell sausage.”

  “Here’s yer food,” Ruth said, setting the plates on the table. “Bone appetite,” she said before dragging herself away.

  Rick offered salt and pepper to Traci then said, “Okay, let me ask you. . .who was the last program director here?”

  “Guy named Wayne Summers, why?”

  “When did he leave?” Rick cut his sausage into easy-to-chew pieces.

  “I dunno.” Traci popped a fried chicken nugget into her mouth. “A few weeks before Captain Jack stopped showing up.”

  Rick speared one of his sausage bits with his fork and gestured with it as he spoke. “Clay told me the guy left while I was on my way here, leaving him in a jam. Ended up roping me into the job.”

  Traci seemed to think that was pretty funny. “Awww, is this the first time you’ve been lied to, little boy?”

  “No but it’s the sort of thing, for example, that’ll keep me from spying for him.” Rick put the sausage in his mouth, careful to avoid his loose tooth. “That’s my point.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going to burn any calories defending the guy,” Traci said. “But that’s just how bosses are, in my experience.”

  “Yeah, mine too,” Rick said. “And speaking of bosses. Who owns the station?”

  “Old guy named Eugene Gentry, lives in Mobile,” Traci said. “I’ve never met him. He calls and talks to Clay every now and then but he never comes here as far as I know. I think he owns two or three stations around the south and just lets his general managers run them.”

  They stopped talking for a minute while they ate. Rick used his biscuits to bulldoze gravy, grits, and sausage onto his fork. He seemed to lose interest in anything other than how fast he could shovel it all into his mouth.

  Traci showed a little more reserve. She ate all the fried chicken pieces before starting on to the salad below. She jabbed her fork into the bowl and came up with a load of lettuce. Opening her mouth, she tried several angles of approach but none was sufficiently graceful. Finally she stuffed the whole thing into her mouth and chewed like a mule.

  Rick noticed a dollop of the green onion dressing waiting at the corner of Traci’s mouth. It was the first time he’d noticed the curves of her lips. He was studying their contours when her tongue darted out and hauled in the dollop, startling him slightly. Rick was so captivated by Traci’s features that he didn’t notice the guy at the hostess stand who was staring at him. Traci was facing the other way so she didn’t see him either. The guy seemed to be torn between attacking and retreating, large muscles pulling him in both directions. After a moment, he turned around and stormed back out to the parking lot, mumbling to himself.

  Rick finished his second biscuit and waved at Ruth for the check. He had to be on the air in twenty minutes. He took out his wallet then looked at Traci. “By the way,” he said. “What do you think happened to Captain Jack?” He tossed it off like it was no big deal.

  “My guess?” Traci made a serious face and said, “Something really bad.”

  17.

  As they walked back to Rick’s truck, neither of them noticed the black Trans-Am parked on the far side of the lot. It had a busted tail light and a gold metal-flake firebird painted on the hood. The driver was slouched in his seat packing a big dip of snuff behind his lower lip. The beer can between his legs was about a third full of slippery brown spit. The driver waited until Rick pulled out of the parking lot. He fired up the Pontiac and pulled onto the road behind them.

  As they drove back to the station Traci admitted she had no evidence to support her feeling that something bad had happened to Captain Jack. “It just seems obvious to me,” she said, “that if someone disappears and leaves all their stuff behind, and not just the broken ironing board kind of stuff, but everything, including a paycheck -- then something bad must’ve happened.”

  Rick said he agreed and, without being too conspicuous, made it clear he was curious about the fate of Captain Jack. He left it at that. He was tempted to tell Traci about the tape, and tell her his theory, and engage her as a confidante who might be able to help him navigate whatever murky local waters he might encounter, but he didn’t know her allegiances well enough. He didn’t know if he could trust her, though his instincts said he could. Sti
ll, he felt it was safe to say, “You know I’m staying out at his old place.”

  “Out at the trailer?”

  “I prefer manufactured home, but yeah. First time Clay took me out there it looked like the place had been ransacked. Clay said the cops had been there looking for clues.”

  “They find anything?”

  “I guess not,” Rick said. “From what I gathered, they don’t even have a working theory on what had happened. Did anybody at work tell the cops anything interesting?”

  Traci shook her head. “They never even came to the station to talk to anybody as far as I know.” She paused a moment as something occurred to her. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “Yeah,” Rick agreed. “Seems weird to me.” He paused a moment then said, “I think you’re right that something bad happened to him.”

  “Really?” Traci turned to face Rick with sudden, curious animation. “Do you know something?”

  “I know I had a visitor last night,” Rick said. “A big one. He busted in looking for Captain Jack. Seems a coke dealer was owed some money.”

  “Oh my God, what happened?”

  “He showed me his boot, I showed him my cast iron skillet, then we talked a little about Ted Nugent. It was lovely.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Rick turned his head slowly toward Traci. “This is a small point,” he said. “But in the future? If such a circumstance should repeat itself? I’d appreciate it if the first question you asked was how bad did I hurt the other guy.”

  “Sorry. You said he was big.”

  “And he was. I’m just saying.”

  “I understand.”

  “But it’s sweet that you care whether I got hurt.” Rick reached up and pointed at his tooth. “He kinda loosened this one.”

  Traci shook her head. “Awwww, poor baby.” She reached over and gave Rick a pat on the leg. “Bless your heart.”

  As they pulled into the studio’s parking lot, Rick thought about how Traci had seemed on the verge of telling him something while they were at Kitty’s. He wondered if she knew more about Captain Jack than she was letting on. He was tempted to ask, but let it go. He figured she’d tell him sooner or later. As they pulled into a parking spot, the black Trans Am cruised past the station unnoticed.

  Traci got out of the truck and said, “You better hurry. You’ve only got about five minutes.” She walked over to her car and paused before getting in. “Hey, thanks for dinner.”

  Rick was at the door to the station. He stopped and said, “Do it again?”

  “Sure. Next time, we’ll go to Steak ‘n Surf and talk about the Kennedy assassination.” She pointed at the building. “Now go play me a song.”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to guess which one is yours.” Rick disappeared into the station. He rushed into the studio and found Autumn dancing to The Music Makers from Donovan’s Cosmic Wheels album. “Hey,” she said as she writhed to the semi-exotic rock groove. “This is such a great song! I can’t believe I’ve never heard it before.”

  Rick went to the wall and pulled Lou Reed’s Transformer. “You stumble across it or did somebody request it?”

  “Request,” Autumn said as she danced out from behind the control board like a new born hippie. “I can’t believe how much of this stuff I’ve never even heard. How come nobody plays this anymore?”

  “Somebody does, now.” Rick put his record on the turntable and cued his song. “You know the Donovan song, Jennifer Juniper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know who it’s about?” Autumn shook her head no. “Well, Jennifer was Jenny Boyd who later married Mick Fleetwood.”

  “As in Fleetwood Mac?”

  “Yeah, and long before Buckingham and Nicks joined the group. Anyway Jenny had a sister named Pattie who had a bit part as the girl on the train in ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. Her one line is, ‘Prisoners?’ Anyway, Eric Clapton fell in love Pattie.”

  Autumn stopped dancing and said, “Really?”

  “Yes, unfortunately Pattie was married to George Harrison at the time which left Eric wallowing in despair and unrequited love and led him to write what famous song?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Layla.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  Rick shook his head. “Pattie eventually left Harrison and married Clapton.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. Sadly, Eric and Pattie divorced in ‘88.” Rick signed on to the program log then turned back to Autumn. “Now, before she inspired Layla, Pattie was the muse behind several other songs, including Harrison’s Something and, later, Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight. You could probably do half an hour of songs on these girls. In fact, I just might.”

  Autumn resumed dancing as she moved toward the door. “Oh, before I forget? Stubblefield called, wants us to start running the cash giveaway promo four times an hour.” She held up four fingers, then smiled. “Have a good show.” She waved good-bye and slipped out the door.

  “See ya.” Rick put on his headphones as Donovan faded out. He cleared his throat a couple of times then opened his mike and said, “You’re listening to WAOR-FM, McRae, Mississippi. Redefining classic rock.” Rick pictured Traci’s eyes and said, “Here’s Lou Reed from 1972 with his ode to the proper use of cosmetics. A little something he called, Makeup.”

  18.

  The phones were active all night -- mostly positive feedback from an audience starved for real rock classics -- though there was one brain-dead metal-head who wanted a double block of Queensryche. More often than not Rick found himself trying to explain the format to bewildered children of the late seventies. As he said to one caller, “It’s not about whether Journey is as good as the Allman Brothers. It’s about the music from a specific time period.”

  Rick used the final thirty minutes of his shift to test the theory that you could do a half hour of songs related to the Boyd sisters. He started with Jennifer Juniper then went to George’s early songs for Pattie, starting with I Need You from the Help soundtrack. He followed that with Something from

  Abbey Road, noting on-the-air that Frank Sinatra considered it one of the best love songs ever written. After that Rick played For You Blue from Let it Be. He then switched to Clapton’s point of view, starting with Layla and making a nice transition from its coda into Wonderful Tonight. Harrison’s response followed in the form of his spiteful rewrite of the Everly Brothers’ ditty Bye Bye Love which featured barbed references to Pattie running off with ‘old Clapper.’ After this came Clapton’s post-divorce tune, Old Love and finally, back to Harrison’s Dark Horse album to wrap it up with So Sad. Uncle Victor walked into the studio just as Rick was starting the last song. As always he had his ancient leather bag strapped over his stooped shoulder. He pulled a copy of J.J. Cale’s Naturally and ran his finger down the song list. Without looking up at Rick he said, “As inspired as this tribute to the romantic affairs of Slow Hand and the Quiet Beatle is, I believe Old Love was released in 1989 on the Journeyman album and thus. . . violates the format.” His pause was short but dramatic. Uncle Victor then stepped behind the board and cued Call Me The Breeze with an air of tranquil superiority.

  “Busted,” Rick said as he filed his records. “And if I hadn’t heard you at about two-thirty yesterday morning playing something from Swordfishtrombones, I’d feel like a real hypocrite about it.” He tried his own dramatic pause here before saying, “But, as you know, sometimes the music requires things the format doesn’t allow.” He glanced over his shoulder to gauge the response.

  Uncle Victor grinned like a guy who was used to getting caught. He cleared his throat, turned on the mike, and said, “One-oh-two-point-nine-FM, WAOR, McRae. Here’s J.J. Cale with something Lynyrd Skynyrd liked so much they did their own version three years later.” He started the song and killed his mike. He removed his cans and said, “The Tom Waits was essential to my set.”

  “Yes it was,” Rick said. “And that’s my p
oint.” He stepped closer to Uncle Victor. “This format is like a musical instrument,” he said. “You have to know how to play it. Otherwise, it’s like a monkey banging on a drum, a lot of noise and not much music. And, though you were technically outside the format, you played it like a maestro.” Rick crossed to the door. “That’s all I ask.”

  Uncle Victor took a small bow at the compliment. “You have to understand the rules before you can break them,” he said.

  “Exactly, like so many things in life.”

  “Well. I’m glad we had this talk.” Uncle Victor went to the wall and pulled Boogie With Canned Heat. “Have a good night,” he said.

  Rick gave him a salute then opened the door. “I’m on the road again,” he said on his way out. Rick locked his office and headed for the front door, stepping out of the station just after midnight feeling optimistic about all manner of things. He and Traci seemed to have made a connection over dinner. Rick could tell she was intrigued by Captain Jack’s disappearance and, though he wasn’t sure how, he thought she might be helpful in trying to find out what happened. Beyond that, the format was taking shape and so far they hadn’t lost a single sponsor. Topping it off, he felt tonight’s show had been his best in a long time.

  He was so pleased about things that it wasn’t until he was actually sitting in his truck that he noticed his windshield had been completely shattered. It looked like someone with a Louisville Slugger had taken batting practice on it. His anger rising, Rick moved in the seat and heard the pebbled safety glass crunching under his weight. He stepped out of the truck to check his tires. They were fine. He popped the hood. The plugs and belts and the few other things he knew about all seemed intact. He turned and looked to the end of the parking lot where the WAOR Prize Van was parked. Rick walked over and looked. It hadn’t been touched. He returned to his truck and slammed the hood shut and wondered if this was the work of someone who didn’t like the new format, perhaps the disgruntled metal-head. But if so, wouldn’t it be more symbolic to bust the window from the van with WAOR painted on the side? Maybe symbolism was beyond the vandal’s range. Or maybe it was the Nugent fan coming to get revenge for his cracked ankle. Rick hadn’t been in town long enough to make many more enemies than that. Of course it could have been run-of-the-mill mayhem, a little random violence that had nothing to do with Rick except that his truck happened to get in the way of someone’s uncontrolled rage.